Chapter 4
I call Markus in Copenhagen to tell him my decision.
‘Good for you,’ he says distractedly. The usual enthusiasm in his voice is missing.
‘What is it?’ I blurt, so used to being vetoed by Simon. ‘Do you not want me to go?’
Silence, then: ‘You’re asking me for permission?’
‘No, but, I mean, can you manage on your own?’
‘Do you mean, do I need you? Yes, always. But I’d rather you were relaxed and happy. Besides, this is a pretty quiet time for the business, so now is the best time for you to go.’
Just like that? No Simon-sized drama? ‘Oh. Okay…’
And yet I can feel a hesitance. He’s right that things usually quiet down after the Easter rush, so I believe him when he says he can cope without me. So what is it, then? Dare I hope that he’s like this because he’s going to miss me?
‘But I can still call you, right?’ he asks.
‘Of course. It’s not a prison or anything.’
‘Cool. Then we’ll talk as often as possible. In a way, it’ll be like you never left.’
‘Sort of defeats the purpose though, doesn’t it?’
‘Aw, Livvie, you know I’m completely lost without you.’
If only it were true. But it’s the opposite.
He always does and says the right thing.
He encourages me to try out new ideas, and listens to me patiently when I need to rant (which, now that I think about it, is pretty often).
He takes out the rubbish bins despite it not being his home, and checks up on my dad during the day, maybe even stopping for a cuppa and a few minutes to help with one of Dad’s new puzzles.
Markus is always available for anything that we need, like a ride to football or guitar lessons or taking my dad down to the pub for an hour or so in the evening.
All this makes me think that, in a parallel universe, we could have been together.
Had fate been on my side for at least once in my life, we could have fallen in love.
I would be listening to his breathing instead of Simon’s loud snoring.
He would hold me at night, as opposed to Simon, who sleeps on the edge so there’s not even a chance of us touching.
My children would look at me with his eyes, and not Simon’s.
Did you get my double entendre, there? Simon wouldn’t have.
Cassie would respect me more. Markus would have made sure of that, instead of sniggering at her shots at me like Simon does. We could have had that life together, but it’s all, and always will be, only in my heart.
‘You’ll come back better than ever,’ he says with a chuckle and already I feel better. ‘You need a break, especially lately.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree. Markus almost knows me better than I know myself, so I know that he’s right.
Markus knows everything about me, except this one secret which I can never tell him lest I ruin the beautiful friendship we have.
I can never tell him that I wish he was my husband, that we had children of our own, that I desire him in every way humanly possible.
Simon and I haven’t been intimate for years.
I’d had no idea that we had reached that point in our relationship where the complicity had gone alongside everything else; the pleasure of just being in each other’s company, talking about everything from a new brand of yoghurt at the supermarket we wanted to try, to the children’s education.
It was all gone. The pleasure of a shared life, the efforts of being a family.
It had made me feel so small. Unwanted. Kicked to the kerb.
Redundant. As if there was no use for me whatsoever.
I know there is, technically. My family couldn’t run without me.
At least not without three major crises a day.
Not with Simon at the helm. And yet, he’s slowly, slowly discarding the pieces of me, each aspect of our life together, every day.
Without looking back, not to mention even giving me an explanation.
It had been so slow I hadn’t even noticed, leaving me unarmed and vulnerable.
I know it would be different with Markus.
‘So when are you going?’ he asks, jolting me out of my fantasy.
‘Uh, the invitation is for April 13th. The same day you get back from bloody Denmark.’
‘Rotten Denmark,’ he corrects me. ‘There is something rotten in the state of Denmark. Hamlet. Isn’t that what you meant?’
I laugh. ‘No, I meant that I hate Denmark when you’re there and that I miss you! We won’t even see each other before I go. For two entire months.’
‘It’ll make our reunion afterwards that much nicer. I’ll be there for the kids and your Dad, no worries.’
‘How can I thank you?’ I ask.
‘By coming back relaxed,’ he says. ‘I’ll miss you, skat.’
Not as much as I’ll miss you.
*
‘Mum fell on the floor at McDonald’s today and then yelled at a lady who tried to help her,’ Cassie smugly tells Simon the second he walks through the door that evening.
He stops in his tracks, keys still in hand, as if he’s ready to run back to the car, eyeing me as I busy myself with the pasta sauce, careful not to spill it.
I believe that only the presence of my dad is stopping him from saying anything unpleasant.
Because if he said it was all due to the fact that I was too stressed, he’d have to agree that I should go to the spa.
He didn’t actually answer with more than a grunt when I told him, actually.
Such is his disinterest in my life. But now he makes sure I’m the only one who hears him sighing as he washes his hands at the kitchen sink.
He says nothing, as he has done for months.
His silence is like a neon sign flashing his mantra: not getting involved.
Oh, how I’d love to get into a conversation, the ones he calls arguments.
How I’d love to tell him how I feel, that I am so, so lost, that I can’t see the purpose of my own life besides raising the kids and running a business.
I assume for some people it would be enough, but for me that is merely survival.
Is that all there is? What about emotions, love, laughter?
I’m missing out on all the good things. You reach your goals and then sit on your laurels until you die?
No happiness, no peaks, just one long, flat line.
What can I do to get out of this rut? Is there some magic word that I haven’t said, something I haven’t done or thought of that might just clinch the deal? I just don’t know what to do anymore.
Later, that night, when Simon finally comes to bed, I turn to face him. ‘It is okay with you if I go, right?’
He stops pulling off his socks, his shoulders visibly stiffening. ‘Well, it sounds like I don’t have a say, does it?’
I sit up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that it sounds like you’re dying to go off on your own for a bit. A pity I don’t get that luxury.’
Well, that’s really rich, coming from the ever-absent father who spends more time out of the house than he does in it. But I don’t say anything, because the last thing I need is another bedtime ‘argument’.
‘I just think it would be good for all of us,’ I whisper.
‘Olivia, you are going to do what you are going to do, and that is that. Good night.’
I bite my lip. It’s the best I’m going to get from him, tonight or ever.
*
After another night of complete silence instead of the deep and lengthy conversations I long for from a partner, I tell the children I’m planning to go away for a bit while they help me pack some items for delivery.
Joe likes to do a good job with the labels while Cassie’s hasty work has to be checked over and over.
She doesn’t like helping out and has made that fact abundantly clear.
‘Are you sick, Mum?’ Joe asks.
‘No, sweetie, just tired.’ Fed up, actually. ‘Mummy needs a break.’
‘From what?’ Cassie interjects.
You. And your father.
‘From… work.’
‘But you work from home. You don’t have to drive to work or wear a suit like Jen’s parents.’
Ah, yes, I had forgotten about those two even more miserable fuckers.
What kids, or at least my kids, don’t understand, is that working for yourself is even harder and more stressful than working under someone else.
You have to put in more hours, more energy, more of yourself or it’s the end of your business.
And even if you’re lucky enough to have help from someone like Markus, it’s still damn hard, riding the wave and staying relevant and interesting.
Markus and I each have our own specialties (we joke that he’s the hard stuff guy and I’m the soft stuff girl) but we often cross over to help the other when needed. Over the years I’ve learnt to plane a plank of wood and he’s learnt to cross-stitch, believe it or not!
Markus and I both agree that it’s important to be competent in all aspects and facets of the business so that when one of us gets sick and can only give twenty percent, the other swoops in and supplies the remaining eighty.
(Something that I don’t get in my marriage with Simon, by the way.) But that’s how it works with Markus and me.
‘So that’s it?’ Simon asks as he watches me bring down a suitcase from the attic. ‘You’ve really decided you’re going?’
I put the suitcase down on the floor and straighten my jumper. ‘Did you think I was joking?’
He snorts. ‘Actually, I thought you’d change your mind. You realise you’re leaving our kids in the hands of an elderly man.’
‘Dad is fine. And just so you know, our children will be your responsibility, not his.’
Even if I’ve caught him out, he doesn’t miss a beat, I have to give him that. He comes straight back for the counter-attack.
‘And what about the business? You’re leaving our second income in the hands of Jaime Lannister.’
Jaime Lannister, for those who don’t know, is a character of Game of Thrones, and initially not a very reputable one.
That’s what he calls Markus behind his back.
Need I point out the obvious, major jealousy factor?
But he’s not jealous of Markus and me, he’s jealous of Markus period.
Because, if we’re going to be so vain and start comparing them, Simon wouldn’t stand a chance against him, on every level.
For the longest time I was adamant that I wasn’t going, but now I am defending my right to a break. Maybe Cassie and Simon will finally understand what it means to not have me around. Let Simon make an effort, while someone else caters to my needs for once.
No laundry, no school runs, no ferrying the kids back and forth to their clubs and practices.
No grocery shopping, meal prepping, dusting, hoovering, washing floors, scrubbing toilets.
I hadn’t actually thought of that. I’ll be relieved of all mundane chores and anything related to home-making.
I can actually reset my brain, my emotions. Calm down, catch my breath for once.
And it’s not like I’m going away forever. I don’t even have to stay the two months. It’s not a prison. I can stay one month, or three weeks, even. I can come home as soon as I want to. What’s going to stop me?